


Next Chapter

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Good Books, Bad Movies [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Courtship, Dean Has Low Self-Esteem, Dean is a Disney princess, Dirty Talk, Flirting, M/M, Memory Foam, Phone Sex, gratuitous Liz Lemon quote, melancholy yearnings, nautical metaphors, red cowgirl boots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is an award-winning, heavily tattooed writer of dark fantasy; Dean Winchester runs a quirky book/video store. And they're totally hot for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Hello, Dean. What are you reading?**

Dean got Cas’s text in his office, where he’d retreated once the store was up and running, rather than traumatize his customers with the spectacle of his gnawed-on neck. Thank God he opened with Kevin on Thursdays; while he'd definitely noticed Dean's disheveled, afterglow-radiating state, he'd merely raised an eyebrow and let it go without a word. (Unfortunately, Charlie was due in at 1:00, and she would not be so accommodating.) 

When the text came through, he was doing restock reports with his reading glasses perched on his nose, wishing his desk chair had more cushioning—he may have been a tad overenthusiastic this morning. He's shocked, frankly—despite Castiel Novak's sweet protests (and that bye-honey-see-you-at-dinner last kiss), he'd no real expectation that he'd hear from him again. Lord knows that's the normal procedure for one-night-stands, no matter how (goddamn fucking amazingly) hot.

He checked the time—shit, Cas must've just landed in St. Louis, didn't he have something better to do? Nonplussed, Dean just stared at his phone for two full minutes before replying.

_Don't you mean what are you wearing?_

**I know what you're wearing. Unless you've changed. Have you changed?**

_I'm wearing a different pair of jeans and a different T-shirt. I usually have spares in my office cause I don't always go home._

**Hard-working man. That's hot, you know.**

_Or pathological._

**It can be both.**

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Dammit, the man was a flirt. A flirt who was a whole state away, he reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment: but all he could see on the back of his eyelids was Cas stretched beneath him a few hours ago, Cas's back arching as he thrust up into him, Cas's sapphire eyes all pupil. His phone chirped again.

**Seriously, Dean, what are you reading?**

_Right now? The Random House restock report. I'm at work, dude—did you want something?_

Cas took a minute to reply. **Oh God, you're right, I'm sorry. I forget that normal people work during the day, I tend to stay up all night. Really sorry.**

_It’s OK. Later?_

**Tonight. I’ve got a reading. Can I call you after?**

_If you want, sure, sounds good._

There was no response. Dean stared at his phone for a while, until the screensaver came up on his computer, a steady parade of the staff's favorite book covers and movie posters shifting by. Did that go well? he wondered. What would that even mean? 

He felt hope rising again, hot beneath his heart and at the base of his neck. Maybe he could do this, this time. Maybe it'd even be easier, since he wouldn't see Cas that much, wouldn't have to worry about overwhelming him with—with who he was, all the shit that, like the reading glasses, he tried his damnedest not to let people see.

Then again, Cas was probably just bored, didn't know anyone in St. Louis. 

He wouldn't call.

*******

Cas _was_ bored, and exhausted, and far too full of coffee to nap before his reading at Subterranean Books. But even after a half-gallon of bitter black brew, he could still taste Dean: the staled sweetness of his mouth, the salty slick of his sweat, the seawater tang of his come. He sent his first text in the cab to the hotel; Meg shot him a curious glance but didn't inquire further.

That is, until they were in the elevator at the hotel, and she said bluntly, "You fucked the owner last night, didn't you?"

"What?" Cas was suddenly very focused on the glowing floor buttons. "That's—that's none of your business."

"Which means yes. Look, angelcakes, I'm not your chaperone, but you should probably keep it in your pants on tour, with industry types especially. You don't want to get a reputation."

"I'm not going to, Meg! I've never done something like that before, and I'm not going to make a habit of it. I just wanted to, OK?" He looked down at his boots, spoke softly. "I just wanted him."

When he looked up, Meg punched him gently on the shoulder and said, "That was him you were texting in the car, huh? Are you actually gonna try to see him again?"

Cas was pretty sure he was blushing. "I think I am? He's, well, I don't really know him yet, but I sort of want to date his store."

"And he's even prettier than you are," she said with a smirk.

"I can't tell if that's a compliment."

"Oh, it is, tiger, believe me. Try Googling yourself sometime."

*******

Charlie’s slightly-flat alto warbling “Express Yourself” at top volume alerted Dean to her arrival, and he managed to hide his glasses before she flung open his office door and tossed her overstuffed tote bag on the floor beside his desk. “Soooooo, how did it go last night?” she asked, and then her eyes widened as she took him in. _“Dean._ You look well and truly laid.”

Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, that’s accurate.”

She jumped up and down a little, hands clasped in glee. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie! Way to get your groove back. Mmm, hold that thought, I’m just gonna think about Angela Bassett for a minute.” Her eyes unfocused, but soon came back with a shake of her head. “What happened, dude? Did you just jump him?”

“He kind of jumped me?” Dean said. “Figuratively. And then literally. Here, look.” He handed her the copy of _Celestial Intent_ Cas had signed for him.

Her jaw dropped as she read the flirtatious inscription. “By the hammer of Thor! That saucy minx! I didn’t think he had it in him.” She handed the book back and regarded him pensively. “So what now, stud? You get those digits?”

Dean flushed. “I did, actually? He texted this morning, and he said he’d call after his reading tonight. I’m sure he’ll forget, though. Probably just being nice.”

“Whatevs. No need to be nice once you’ve already closed the deal, amirite?” Charlie offered a fist to bump. “Maybe he _likes_ you, Fearless Leader, you ever think of that? Have a little self-esteem.”

Dean snorted. “It’s not self-esteem, Charlie, it’s reality. Hookups don’t call. Bestselling authors don’t date guys like me.”

“Oh, stop living in literary fiction all the time. Good things do happen. I will bet you…let’s see, a week’s worth of coffee runs, that he calls tonight.”

“From the Starbucks, or the good place?”

“The good place,” she said, and they shook on it. “Don’t forget, I prefer almond milk to soy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean actually went home that night—well, to his apartment. The bookstore was the only place he knew that really felt like _home_ since the house he grew up in had burned down. 

He was running on even less sleep than usual, and once the last of the morning’s endorphins wore off around 7, he'd just wanted to lie down behind the counter and take a nap. In fact, he’d gone so far as to stretch out on the floor before Charlie came over and poked him in the ribs with one red cowgirl boot.

"All right, boyo, move it along," she said in a passable imitation of an Irish brogue. "Seriously, Dean, get outta here and go sleep in a real bed for once. Well, for twice, I guess."

“We don’t close for an hour,” Dean murmured with his eyes closed. “I’ll be fine, just gonna rest for a second.”

"Nope. Not gonna fly, buddy. I'm just gonna stand here and poke you until you get up, it's for your own good." She jammed her (very pointy) toe into his side again. "Come on. Up and at 'em." _Poke._

Dean grunted and grabbed her ankle before she could do it a fourth time. _“Ow._ For fuck's sake, Charlie, I've got enough new bruises."

"Go the fuck to sleep, Dean. I've closed alone before—turns out I'm fully capable of counting money and locking the door."

Reluctant but resigned, he rolled onto one side and sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. "Thanks, Charlie," he muttered.

"No probalo." She shrugged. "Now git."

As Dean slid sleepily behind the wheel of his near-antique Impala—sleek and black and huge, it always made him feel like he was steering a yacht—he flashed back to last night, Cas shoving him back against the driver's side door with rapacious hands and mouth. The window crank, that's where that sore spot Charlie was prodding came from, he realized, and the memory woke him up enough to drive the few blocks to his studio.

Had he eaten today? he thought blearily as he climbed the stairs. It wasn't unusual for him to forget, particularly when he was in a very good—or a very bad—mood. He'd made instant oatmeal sometime in the morning, he seemed to recall. And he was pretty sure Charlie had put half a sandwich down in front of him mid-afternoon, but he didn't remember eating it. That was not a good sign.

Twenty minutes later, Dean had devoured two microwave burritos and chased them with a half-tumbler of bourbon, stripped down to T-shirt and boxers and toppled onto his mattress on the floor—he’d splurged on memory foam, which meant no money left over for a bedframe. He wriggled contentedly into familiar grooves, sighing as it remembered his weight.

And then sprang up hastily to plug his phone into its charger.

Just in case.

*******

By 10:00, Cas was curled up under a faux-damask duvet, wondering why he’d ever liked sleeping alone in king-sized beds. He felt somehow adrift, like Ishmael at the end of _Moby-Dick,_ clinging to a coffin in the hostile sea—no, that was a ridiculous, melodramatic analogy. It was just a big bed, that’s all.

A big, empty, lonesome bed.

Shit, what was the _matter_ with him? Melancholy yearnings were not his style; he preferred to keep his emotions tidily sorted, brought out at the appropriate times and then safely stowed away. But as soon as he shook Dean Winchester’s hand, he was lost—a mess of irrational impulses, a chaos of want. And try as he might, he couldn’t reassert control.

So it was good, really, to put a few hundred miles between them. Away from the distracting influence of Dean's beauty, his runaway desire could only do so much; if they had to communicate with words instead of bodies, eventually logic would prevail over this infatuation.

In the meantime, though, he'd dialed Dean's number (funny, wasn't it, that it was still called dialing when all he'd done was touch a patch of color on a screen?) and was listening to one, two, three, four rings—and his heart, lodged in his throat, was telling him this was the most important thing he'd ever done.

"Hey," Dean said when he picked up, voice blurry with sleep, and just that one syllable made Cas dizzy with need.

He swallowed. "Hello, Dean," he said. "What are you reading?"


	3. Chapter 3

Dean felt giddy as a Disney princess— _he called, he really called, he said he would but he actually did,_ the inside of his head is singing—but he was also half-asleep and a little drunk, so his laugh came out subdued as he sank back down on his bed. "Leading with that again, huh? Is it your only line?"

"It's a neutral yet interesting topic," said Cas. "Would you rather talk about the weather?"

"Nah. I’m reading a bunch of stuff, though." Surveying the Jenga-stack tower of books on the floor next to his mattress, Dean reads off some titles: "OK, still working my way through _Infinite Jest,_ going on five years now. Halfway done with a book about the '85 Chicago Bears, cause it’s the first Super Bowl I remember watching. Oh! And I just started this badass novel that comes out next month? Fallen angel quantum physics noir. Never read anything quite like it."

"I think I read that one too. Red wings on the cover? Fedora and a cigarette?"

"YES. Fucking great, right?" _You’re_ fucking great, sings Dean’s inner princess from her tower, a cartoon bird perching on her outstretched hand.

Okay, maybe he was closer to half-drunk. And/or three-quarters asleep.

Still, that rough, low voice was waking him up—parts of him anyway. He was definitely close to half-hard, and he found himself wondering whether he could come just from listening to Cas talk...“Wait, did you say something?” Dean asked, realizing he’d been taking in sound but not meaning.

“I asked how you are,” said Cas. 

“Tired. And sore,” Dean admitted. “You? How’d the reading go?”

“Well—though I didn’t bring the owner home, so it paled in comparison to last night,” said Cas, and his voice somehow dropped even lower. Dean reached down to palm his cock, biting his lip to keep from moaning. Cas continued: “And while I’m exhausted myself, I’ve been over-caffeinated all day, so it’ll be hours before I sleep.”

And there was his opening. “Would, uh, would coming help?” he asked.

Silence. Dean was about to take it back when Cas said timidly, “Phone sex? Really?”

“Yeah. You up for it? I certainly am.” Dean stroked himself a little through his boxers, let Cas hear the whimper as he did so.

“I—yes, I’m up,” said Cas—and what was this with the sudden shyness? thought Dean. He’d been almost dominant before. 

“You’re hard, then?” said Dean, pitching his own voice low to match the other man’s. “You’re hard for me?”

“Oh _God,”_ Cas moaned. “Yes, yes I am, just for you, Dean. But—but honestly? I’m not very good at this. Usually I end up giggling, and it tends to break the mood.”

“All right, well, I _am_ good at this, so it’ll be my job to make sure you’re too fucking turned on to giggle,” said Dean. “We’ll start off slow. What’re you wearing?”

Cas laughed. “Actually, I’m not wearing anything. I always sleep naked.”

Dean’s grip on his cock tightened reflexively, and his head fell back, hitting the wall with a thump. (Ow.) “You’ve been naked this whole time? Dammit, Cas, why didn’t you lead with _that?”_

*******

“I wasn’t sure it was relevant?” Cas felt lightheaded, almost panicky, the warm friction of sheets against his stiff cock too much and too little at the same time. “I didn’t expect you to—to seduce me, honestly. You don’t have to do this.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean said, an edge of desperation in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, I’m gonna try to seduce you every damn chance I get.”

Cas made a strangled noise and reached down to take himself in hand. “Are you naked, Dean?”

“Gimme a sec.” Breath held, Cas could just hear the sounds of fabric sliding over skin, and felt an absurd surge of jealousy towards the cotton. “I am now, Cas. I’m naked and hard, lying on my bed, wishing you were here so I could get my mouth around that cock. Would you like that, Cas? Me on my knees, sucking your cock?”

“Yes,” said Cas, thrusting slowly into his fist. “Dean, your mouth—your mouth is _perfect._ Even just kissing you, it’s like falling, it’s like flying too close to the sun.”

“God, that is some fancy dirty talk right there, Cas, way to make me look bad,” gasped Dean. 

“I’m sorry, I told you I wasn’t any good at this.”

“Oh, fuck, Cas, no, you’re fucking amazing, I can hardly hold back from coming already,” said Dean. “I wanna be there, dammit, I wanna put my mouth _everywhere,_ your mouth and your neck and suck on your nipple rings and slide my mouth down over your cock, down and down until I can’t take any more. Are you thinking about it? Are you picturing my lips, stretched around your cock?”

Cas had licked his hand wet while Dean was talking, and now his palm was hot and slick, slipping more quickly over his shaft as his thumb traced the head. “I am. It’s beautiful, Dean. You’re beautiful. I want you so much.”

“I want you too, Cas. I want you in me—I’ve got two fingers in my ass, I’m stroking myself, all I can think about is riding you hard.”

A sliver of confusion breaks through from the lust-muted logical part of Cas’s brain. “Wait, how are you doing that if you’re still jacking off? How are you holding the phone?”

“Uh, it’s on speaker. Come on, Cas, quit thinking and just feel. Just—fuck, are you close, can you come with me?”

“I can. I want to.” Cas moves his hand faster, bringing himself just to the edge in a matter of seconds. “Now, Dean? Do you want me to come now?”

 _“Oh fuck yes right now PLEASE,”_ Dean cried, and Cas followed orders, pulsing come hot and sticky onto his stomach as he moaned Dean’s name, thinking about him doing the same thing the width of Missouri away. Too far.

“Whew,” Dean said after a moment.

“Yes,” said Cas, too winded for polysyllables.

There was another pause while they both caught their breath. “I didn’t expect this,” said Cas. 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure you just called to talk.”

“I did!” Cas protested. “Dean, I swear I want more than sex from you. How can I make you believe me?”

There's a shaky breath on the other end of the line. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if you can. But—I guess I’m willing to let you try.”

“How gracious of you,” said Cas. “Look, Dean: I have another five days on this tour, and then I’ll go home, and then I’d like to drive down and see you. Will you let me do that?”

Dean sounded weary as he answered. “OK. You—you terrify me, you know that?”

“Likewise, Dean. Good night.”

“G’night, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The novel they're talking about is called _Something More Than Night,_ by Ian Tregillis. It is indeed fucking great.


End file.
